


(You Keep Telling Me) I Ain't Your Kind of Man

by paradisecity



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-19 02:48:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3593538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradisecity/pseuds/paradisecity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No," Cobblepot says, frowning with irritation. "You're not obtuse; don't insult me with feigned surprise. I'm asking only for a kiss, no more. I <em>am</em> a gentleman, after all."</p><p>Or, the one where Cobblepot calls in his favor, Jim's an unreliable narrator, Cobblepot's a gaslighter, and they're perfect for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(You Keep Telling Me) I Ain't Your Kind of Man

**Author's Note:**

> I've mostly been out of fandom for several years and I'm not very familiar with Batman canon, so there may be an error or two. If you catch one, please feel free to point it out!

"Coffee, Jim?"

Jim's no stranger to waking up in odd places. While many of those incidents have been the direct result of coming to following a GCPD-related head trauma, he'd be lying if he didn't admit to at least a passing acquaintance with hangover-tainted morning afters. Still, he's not as surprised as he'd like to be to find himself waking up here.

Cobblepot wavers into view, standing by the side of the bed as Jim blinks the sleep from his eyes. He's shirtless, wearing only a low-slung pair of sweatpants that hide how slender he truly is. He proffers a cup of coffee with a hopeful air and Jim hesitates before he takes it.

The warmth leaching from the mug to his hands emphasizes the slight chill in the air. Cobblepot must feel it too, because he lifts the covers and slides into bed beside Jim. His lips are cool when he presses a small kiss to the bare skin of Jim's shoulder.

Jim doesn't understand how this thing between them ever got this far.

\-----

It started, as so many things have, with one of Cobblepot's plans. For all his intricate machinations and sleight-of-hand thinking, his plans go spectacularly awry with near-predictable regularity.

This one has left half a city block in ruins, Jim's bones still vibrating with force of the explosion. His hearing comes back slowly, bringing with it the sound of debris hitting the ground. There's a fire on the west side of the warehouse, burning brightly in the dark Gotham night. Jim's reaching for his phone to call it in when he hears the sound of approaching sirens in the distance.

He glares at Cobblepot, who at least has the decency to look sheepish. "Oops?" he offers.

Jim wonders if this, finally, will be the incident that justifies his summary dismissal from the GCPD. He's giving serious thought to whether he has skills enough to join Haly's Circus when a thin rain begins to fall. The droplets smear the soot on his hands and suit jacket, turning it to a grimy mess, and he sighs.

"I believe," Cobblepot ventures, "that this may be one of those events that drive men to drink. Luckily, I happen to be the operator of just such an establishment. And if we leave now, no one need know we were ever here."

Dryly, Jim says, "You can't possibly think that would work."

"Do you have a better idea?"

There's a long pause while Jim takes in the decimation around him, sirens growing ever nearer. There's really no way to salvage this; the Captain's going to read him the riot act and he deserves every word.

"No," he says, "but this is my mess and I'll clean it up. Now get lost before anyone sees you here."

Cobblepot huffs. "If I didn't know better, I might think you were ashamed of our friendship."

"We're not friends."

Cobblepot gives him a look that, loosely translated, says _So you blow up buildings with just anyone, then?_

Jim grits his teeth and growls, "Go!" before he has to concede the point.

\-----

Jim gets off more easily than he expected, given that Cobblepot had the foresight to tip him to the one money launderer in all of Gotham who doesn't have ties to either Maroni or Falcone. He gets a slap on the wrist from Essen and a slap on the back from Harvey. "That was some serious destruction there, Jimbo!" he says, nearly gleeful. "Didn't know you had it in you!"

Things quiet down a little after that. Jim hears through the locker room grapevine that Barbara's returned to Montoya, followed in fairly short order by Barbara leaving her again. He finds himself wondering then whether Barbara might come back, and he's disappointed in how easily he'd let her do so. It's this more than anything that convinces him to slow things down with Lee; he made a lot of mistakes with Barbara and he's not at all sure he's done yet.

There are so many thing he's unsure of when it comes to Barbara. Given the rumors he's hearing now for the first time, it seems he didn't know her nearly as well as he thought he did. How did he come to be someone who pledged his life to a stranger, then ended that pledge with silence and distance? He's starting to realize that maybe he's not the man he's always thought himself to be.

And it's more than his personal life. When it comes to work, he's hardly able to convince himself anymore that he's bending the law and not breaking it. He can't deny the effectiveness of the standard operating procedure in Gotham, and it's far easier than he thought to slip down that slope. He's worried he'll become just another crooked cop for whom the ends justify the means, and it doesn't seem like there's anyone left in his life who can stop him before he goes too far.

But both Barbara and work are complex problems with no easy solutions. He doesn't know how to go about course correcting the larger issues he's facing, so he focuses instead on the smaller and more tangible.

He's starting to tire of living between the station and Barbara's abandoned penthouse, with memories starting to gather there like cobwebs. So he does what did when he first returned to Gotham: signs a lease on the first affordable, half-decent apartment he finds. He press gangs Harvey into helping him move, though there's little work to it even when they empty Jim's long-forgotten storage unit.

Given Harvey's colorful commentary about his new place ("Sweet Jesus, Jim, if you wanted to live in a dump I could've gotten you a blanket at Port Authority for free!"), Jim takes more care in furnishing his apartment than he did in finding it. He buys a nice leather armchair for reading, returning the saleswoman's flirtations in hopes of a discount. He rescues an antique-looking down bridge lamp from a street corner near his favorite grocer, buys new sheets in a rich shade of Prussian blue. On his way home through the theater district one evening, he picks up a few imitation Rothko prints from a street vendor near the modern art museum. Rothko was one of the few artists he knew by name before he met Barbara, and the simplicity of his work has always appealed to Jim.

A few weeks after he settles in, he and Harvey catch a string of home burglaries. The crew is strictly high-end, hitting only Gotham's moneyed and elite. The victims are loath to speak to the police, and Jim suspects the perps are getting away with far more than the victims will admit to.

With such little information, the initial avenues of the investigation lead only to dead ends. It isn't until Kristen Kringle overhears their conversation and mentions a string of similar burglaries up the eastern seaboard that the case starts gaining momentum.

Jim and Harvey spend a few days working the phones and poring over blurry faxes of police reports and insurance claims. They're at it for the better part of the week before Harvey gets lucky ("Luck, Jim?" he protests. "Please. It's my natural charm at work.") and gets the angry spouse of a philandering husband on the phone.

"That rat bastard!" she explodes, her voice carrying tinnily over the phone from Harvey's desk to Jim's. "He slept with everyone we knew and that was fine, that's accepted practice, but to be carrying on with a _common chippie_?"

Harvey pulls the receiver away from his ear, grins at Jim, and hits the speakerphone button.

"--no pedigree, no connections?" she continues, her Charleston drawl filling the air. "He may as well just have been pulling his pud in the bathroom!"

Harvey stifles a laugh.

"Ma'am, this is Detective Gordon," Jim says. "I'm working the case with Detective Bullock. Are you saying you knew this woman?"

"No, I'd never seen her before. But Richard, that spineless shmuck, confessed all when he could've gotten away cleanly. Being blackmailed for sex he wasn't even paying for? Like all politicians, he doesn't he doesn't have the good sense God gave a gopher."

"Blackmailed?" Jim asks.

"Yes, of course. She videoed them in the act -- and I assure you, Detectives, she's not nearly as skilled as she thinks is -- and threatened to publicly release the tape unless Richard agreed to her demands."

"What were her demands?" Harvey asks.

"She wanted him to leave the security system unarmed so she could come in and rob us blind. I'd have just asked for money. Seems simpler that way, but who am I to say? She took the jewels, the art, the cash in our safe, even a giant antique cloisonné vase I wrested out of the hands of my first husband in the divorce. I loved that hideous thing. It had symbol. _Meaning_."

"Are you still in possession of the tape, ma'am?"

"Of course. Should I tire of punishing Richard in a few years' time, it's all the argument a judge will need for a divorce."

"We'll send a local officer to pick up the tape and make a copy, ma'am. It could be vital to our ongoing investigation."

"You're welcome to whatever you need, Detective. Richard's idiocy may as well benefit someone else."

Jim mulls over their next move while Harvey makes his pleasantries and hangs up with Mrs. Burke. When he's done, Jim says, "So we know how she operates, but how does she pick her targets? If she's not a working girl, where is she finding these men?"

"Once a cheater, always a cheater," Harvey says. "Even if she's not a working girl, I think they're the place to start. Let's go see the Duchess."

\-----

The Duchess, it turns out, is actually a madam who works a little on the side. Her brothel is nestled between a Christian bookstore and a tailor's shop and given Jim's limited experience with such things, it seems decidedly midrange. The interior has elegant touches -- a crystal chandelier, a dark cherry bar -- but they can't hide the shabby carpets and aging furniture.

It's early in the day, so the parlor is mostly deserted. A lone bartender cleaning glasses leaves to fetch the Duchess at Harvey's request.

"You should come back here sometime," Harvey says. "Where the Duchess shines is having something for everyone. If you can imagine it, I can guarantee you she's got it. Now a creative man? He works the combinations."

"Somehow I don't think Lee would appreciate that."

Harvey looks at Jim like he's dumber than a box of rocks. "She don't gotta _know_ ," he says.

Jim sighs fondly. Any retort he might have had is interrupted by the Duchess's arrival. She's pleased to see them, greeting Harvey with more enthusiasm and tongue than Jim is strictly comfortable with. They take seats in the parlor while Harvey briefs the Duchess on the highlights of the case, then inquires whether any of the girls have had a high-powered regular disappear on them, as though his interest has been redirected elsewhere.

The Duchess mulls it over for a minute, Harvey's hand traveling farther up her thigh like it'll help her think. Her voice is all business when she says, "Actually, we've been seeing a lot less of Tom Allen. I know Rose's girls haven't seen him lately, either."

"That's Rose DeVine, she runs a place uptown," Harvey explains to Jim.

"Who's Tom Allen?" Jim asks.

"He runs Eastern Power and Electric," the Duchess says. She halts Harvey's hand, and he moves his attention instead to mauling her neck. With a wry smile, she rolls her eyes at Jim over Harvey's head. "EPE powers pretty much everything east of the Mississippi, but they've been fighting off a hostile takeover from a west coast conglomerate for a few months now. A scandal like this would do the company in. He sounds like the perfect mark for your girl."

Jim's surprised, and he finds he rather likes this version of the Duchess. "Thank you," he says, and means it. "This could really help our investigation."

"Like any good business, not all my profits are financial."

"Harvey?" Jim says. "Shall we go track him down?"

"Not so fast," he protests. "The Duchess and I have some personal matters to attend to…if you know what I mean."

Jim sighs, and the Duchess smiles sympathetically. "Make yourself comfortable, Jim," she says. "I can send someone out to keep you company?"

"No, but thank you."

"Of course. Give us fifteen minutes."

"Ten!" Harvey says, grabbing her hand and leading her down a side hallway.

She turns around and mouths, "Five," at Jim, who laughs.

\-----

They meet with Tom Allen at his office in the financial district. Allen is understandably reluctant to speak with them, but he grows increasingly more cooperative as they explain what's at stake. He's clearly ashamed at having been caught out this way, but he's willing to provide the GCPD with any information he can.

Unfortunately, that proves to be very little. As he speaks with Jim and Harvey, he realizes he knows nearly nothing about the woman he's been having an affair with for the last few months. The more he tells them, the more apparent it is that many of her stories are contradictory, and Allen has been too intoxicated with lust to notice.

He is able, however, to provide a bottle of liquor from his bottom desk drawer that may have usable prints. Jim and Harvey bag the bottle and take it back to the precinct. They catch their second significant break when forensics is able to pull a partial that identifies her as Camila Munoz.

Her record is small time, mostly petty thievery, until she disappeared off the map altogether eighteen months ago. Jim guesses that if they start looking, they'll find her first mark was cleaned out only a few months afterward. Unfortunately, her record provides no information about who her accomplices might be, and Jim agrees with Harvey's assessment that they have all the information they're going to find.

Essen approves a sting, and they speed up the timeline by asking Allen to break off his affair with Camila. Predictably, she responds with a ransom demand, identical to those in the previous cases. Jim and Harvey start planning the sting and Allen sends his wife on an impromptu vacation to Santorini, hoping to keep her ignorant of the whole mess.

They opt for a simple stakeout: Jim, Harvey, and four GCPD officers for backup. Camila and her three-man crew show up shortly after nightfall on the prearranged date, disguised as a cleaners. They're outnumbered by the GCPD, but when the officers storm the house, the men with Camila put up a far better fight than anyone was expecting. They're skilled in their defense and move together as though they've been trained as a unit.

Two of the perps double team Jim and back him into the kitchen, where there's less room to maneuver. This moves him away from Harvey, who's trading punches with his own perp. Camila flees, using her knowledge of Allen's estate to her advantage, and a pair of officers take chase. The second pair of officers comes to Jim's assistance and between the three of them, they're able to subdue the two men after a few minute's struggle.

By the time they're cuffed, Harvey's been out of sight for too long and Jim's starting to worry about him. He tries to follow the occasional sounds of grunts and crashing objects, but Allen's house is large and the acoustics are disorienting.

"Harvey?" Jim calls.

"Hey, a little help here, Jimbo?" he calls back, and Jim follows the clearer sound of his voice to the foyer. Harvey's nose and lip are bloodied, while the perp looks relatively unscathed. He's much lighter on his feet than Harvey is, and it's clear Harvey's starting to tire.

When the perp hears the running footsteps of Jim and the two officers, he quickly gauges the distance between their approach the door, which Harvey's currently blocking. He pulls a curved karambit knife from the sheath at the small of his back. Jim's still too far to reach them in time to stop the arc of the man's blade from slitting Harvey's stomach, so he stops instead and draws his gun. Harvey dodges aside and Jim drops the man with three shots to center mass. With the gunshots still echoing loudly, the officers behind Jim rush over to the man, kicking away his knife and checking for a pulse. There is none.

Jim leans over the perp, not at all surprised to see the glint of a dog tag hanging from his neck. He'd bet good money the other two men have the same.

He checks Harvey, then. He's safe but winded, and he gives Jim a wry smile. "Thanks for the save," he says, "but you owe me a new suit. This is the third one you've gotten blood on this month."

"Yeah, yeah," Jim says. "You do the paperwork on this one, we'll call it even."

Harvey nods his agreement, then says, "Wait, that doesn't actually work out in my favor!"

Jim grins. "I know."

\-----

The other officers have detained Camila, and they transport her and Jim's two perps back to the station. Essen gives them a well-earned early afternoon, and Harvey makes noise about visiting the Duchess. Jim declines Harvey's invitation, opting instead for nothing more exciting than a cold beer and a good night's sleep.

He heads into the precinct the next morning fully prepared to bully Harvey into doing the paperwork, but Harvey frowns at him when he sees Jim approaching. "What are you doing here?" he asks.

"Save the bad jokes," Jim says. "You're still doing the paperwork."

"No, I'm serious," Harvey says, straightening out of his careless slouch. "You're under investigation. You're not supposed to be here. Didn't Essen tell you?"

"What? She left me a message this morning and said she needed to see me, but I assumed it was related to the case."

"In the worst way, brother. Flass still has a lot of friends, and IA's jamming you up for an officer-involved shooting."

Jim's stunned for a moment. "That's ridiculous. Those shots were clean. And when was the last time IA investigated a shooting, anyway?"

"About six months since never," Harvey says. "Go see Essen. She's trying to work it out for you, but my guess is Flass's guys are going to drag their feet."

Essen confirms everything Harvey said, and she's sincere when she promises to do her best to get Jim out of it. "Still, it'll be a week, probably more like two, before we can get you back," she says. "Keep your temper with them, Jim. You know they're going to try to rattle you."

He makes his promises and she sends him home. He's not really surprised by the intent behind Flass's plan -- he knew he got away from that one far too cleanly -- but he is surprised by the skill of its execution. He can handle these small setbacks, just like he handled Arkham, but their cumulative weight is starting to paint a clear and highly inaccurate picture of his career as a law enforcement officer.

It feels wrong to be heading home in the bright light of midmorning so he wanders the city instead, trying to remind himself why he's fighting so hard for her when she seems determined to break him. She used to be full to the brim with life and promise, so many possibilities for so many people, but the inertia of corruption and apathy have been steadily creeping in. He can't push an entire city in a direction she doesn't want to go, but he's yet ready to stop trying.

The sun breaks out from behind the clouds and his mac coat quickly becomes stifling. He stops for lunch at the Square, then detours through the park. The parents and children taking advantage of the bright afternoon sunlight remind him sharply of Barbara, and he quickly turns instead for home.

He's suddenly glad he spent the time and effort to get his apartment in order, given that he'll be spending quite a bit time there for the foreseeable future. He loses his tie and sits down to read, a history of the French revolution he's slowly been working his way through. He doesn't realize he's been lulled to sleep until a knock at the door wakes him.

He takes a moment to get his bearings. The light coming in through the window indicates early evening; he's been asleep for a few hours. A second knock comes then, more insistent than the first.

Jim thinks he's exhausted his capacity to be surprised for the day, but the sight of Cobblepot on his doorstep proves him wrong. Cobblepot's smile is bright, and he has a bottle of expensive single malt in hand.

"Jim, old friend!" he says. "I hear you've had a rather trying day."

Jim pulls Cobblepot out of the hallway and into his apartment without much thought, concerned only with Cobblepot being seen. "What are you doing here?" he hisses.

"As I said, a friend has had a difficult day. I'm here to offer support and commiseration. As well as libation," he adds, pressing the proffered bottle into Jim's hands. He steps past Jim into the living room and looks around with an assessing eye. "I like what you've done. Much better than before. Bachelors need not live without dignity, after all."

Jim frowns at him. "You've never been here before."

Cobblepot smiles indulgently and settles himself into the sofa near the armchair. Jim responds with a raised eyebrow and he pointedly sets down the scotch down on the table beside Cobblepot, his rejection of the gift clear.

Cobblepot _tsk_ s. "You're going to want to open that," he says. "Particularly given what I have planned for the evening."

"The only plan we have," Jim says, "is the one where you leave me in peace. I'm really not in the mood."

"Perhaps I can change that," Cobblepot says. He makes his way to the kitchen and pulls two tumblers from the leftmost cabinet. He fills both with a generous splash of scotch and hands one to Jim with a small flourish. "You see, I'm calling in my favor tonight, Detective Gordon."

"This really isn't the time. And in case you missed it, I'm persona non grata at the station these days, so I probably couldn't help you even if I tried."

"Luckily, my favor is of a more personal nature," Cobblepot says. He motions at Jim's drink. "Go on, drink up."

Jim looks at him with suspicion, and Cobblepot sighs dramatically. "Drugging is so pedestrian. I simply want to share a drink."

Jim knocks back the scotch in a single gulp, but he doesn't take his eyes from Cobblepot's.

"So, Jim," Cobblepot says, as though their conversation wasn't interrupted for suspicious accusations, "what happened at the precinct?"

"Don't you know?"

"Of course," Cobblepot says. "But I think our fledgling friendship has a much higher probability of success if we pretend to be mutually ignorant about a number of things. Don't you agree?"

Jim sighs and sits down; Cobblepot doesn't look like he's leaving anytime soon. "Short version? I arrested a crooked cop. It wasn't a popular move. Now his friends are hauling me in for an IA investigation about an officer-involved shooting."

"Isn't that standard operating procedure in many places?"

"In many places. Not in Gotham."

"I see. That sounds frustrating indeed," Cobblepot says as he refills Jim's glass. "I myself have also had a trying time of late. The nightclub business is proving to be more difficult than I anticipated. However, I've recently…acquired the assistance of an aide, and I expect together we can turn things around. I do so want the club to be a success.

"Speaking of," he continues, turning his gaze on Jim. "I missed you on our opening night. I know you said you'd be unable to attend, but I'd hoped you might reconsider."

Jim tips back his second drink out of sheer frustration. The scotch is smooth and warming, even if Jim is still ambivalent about its source. "Look, I don't know what you think I am, but I'm not your friend."

"Really," Cobblepot says, his voice cooling considerably. "Is this not the definition of friendship? We do favors for one another, keep each other's secrets, share a drink and conversation when one of us is facing adversity. Please correct me if I'm laboring under some sort of misunderstanding here."

Jim wants to, but…he can't. They're clearly not friends, but he can't disagree with anything Cobblepot's said. He dislikes having their relationship laid out so plainly, but it's undeniably a result of his own actions.

"In that case," Cobblepot says, satisfaction clear in his tone, "I'd like to give you this."

He pulls a small object from the pocket of his waistcoat and hands it to Jim. It takes Jim a moment to recognize it as a calling card. The cardstock is a thick, vivid white, and though the gray font is a modern sans serif, the card itself is still remarkably old fashioned. "Should you need to see me at some point in the future, this will all but guarantee you'll be able to do so," Cobblepot says. "And now that Captain Essen has recalled Flass's surveillance -- she was able to grant you that small reprieve, as least -- you can move about freely."

Jim flinches, and Cobblepot smiles. "Didn't know you were being surveilled, did you? I have to say, Detective Gordon, I expected better."

Jim has no response. After a moment's silence Cobblepot stands to leave. Against his better judgment, Jim says, "Wait. Your favor."

"Ah, yes. I almost forgot," Cobblepot says, but the playful lilt to his words indicates precisely the opposite. "What I'd like you to do now, Jim, is walk me to the door and kiss me good night."

"What?" Jim says. "Why?"

"No," Cobblepot says, frowning with sudden irritation. "You're not obtuse; don't insult me with feigned surprise. I'm asking only for a kiss, no more. I _am_ a gentleman, after all."

Despite Cobblepot's words, Jim finds himself more surprised than he likely should be. Cobblepot's right: Jim's not obtuse and Cobblepot hasn't been subtle. But of all the ways Jim's imagined returning his favor -- and there have been many -- this was never one he considered.

Cobblepot's request seems rather self-debasing, particularly given the fierce streak of his pride. But Jim's always classed him as fundamentally pathetic, and it's this quality that makes him dangerous. It's a sharp combination, especially when put into action like this, and Jim needs to take care not to trip over Cobblepot's pride and incur the consequences.

It's this that decides him. A more expected request -- a cover-up, an assassination -- would have farther-reaching consequences. This is strictly personal, and Jim alone will bear the brunt of Cobblepot's anger if he rejects him.

Cobblepot is patiently waiting for his answer, the loose lines of his body a clear front. "All right," Jim says, and he can't miss the way Cobblepot lights up. He stands, slipping Cobblepot's calling card into his pocket. He proceeds carefully, saying, "Thank you for the drinks. And your company." He falters for a moment. "And, uh, everything else."

"Of course," Cobblepot says graciously. "My pleasure."

Jim guides him to the door with a light hand on the small of his back. Cobblepot stops at the threshold. He turns to face Jim and his smile is small, but seemingly honest. Jim steps nearer, resting one hand on Cobblepot's waist for balance. Cobblepot leans lightly into the touch and Jim steps nearer still, backing Cobblepot up against the door.

Jim takes a breath and manages to make the first press of his lips firm and unhesitating, though he's never kissed a man before. Cobblepot sighs, a soft sound in the growing evening dark. He returns the kiss, gently at first. Then the sudden graze of his teeth is a bright sharpness Jim doesn't expect, and he pulls away.

He assumes he's made good on Cobblepot's request, but Cobblepot shakes his head and pulls Jim back in with a hand wrapped around the nape of his neck. This time his kiss remains a gentle caress, with a clear invitation in the way he licks softly at the swell of Jim's lip. Jim doesn't reciprocate, but he lets Cobblepot take his fill. He breaks away when Cobblepot pushes against him, knocking him slightly off balance.

Jim steps away and clears his throat, feeling the wave of scotch crest all at once. It's a moment before he can meet Cobblepot's eyes, feeling suddenly uncertain and far out of his depth. Cobblepot's smile is complex, and Jim know he doesn't have a hope of deciphering it.

Cobblepot leans in then, the palm of his hand warm against Jim's cheek. "The next time we do this, Jim," he whispers, "it'll be at your request."

Jim can't imagine a scenario in which that would ever be true, but he lets Cobblepot leave without protest. As he closes the door behind him, he has the distinct feeling that he's just been kicked while he was down.

\-----

The IA investigation lasts the better part of three weeks. Evidence is lost, then found, then lost again. Jim is dragged in for one redundant interrogation after another, and he hears Harvey faces the same. The two tosspots from the basement then take their time weighing the evidence, and Jim's been out of the precinct for seventeen days before word comes in that he's been cleared.

He naively assumes that he'll be able to return to work relatively unscathed, but he doesn't even get through an entire day before a call from Commissioner Loeb disabuses him of that notion.

The Commissioner doesn't bother with pleasantries, preferring instead to get right to the point. "I said I'd endorse you for president, Gordon. I've kept my end of the deal. But with this black mark on your record from IA, I can't guarantee you'll win the post."

Jim knows all too well how swiftly his popularity at the station can vacillate. "Surely there's more you can do," he says lowly, casting a casual glance at Harvey to ensure he isn't eavesdropping. And though he hates himself for it, he then adds, "For Miriam's sake."

"Oh, there's more I can do," Loeb says easily. "But I won't. You asked for an endorsement, not a guarantee. You'll learn that in Gotham, the devil is often in the details."

The dial tone rings loudly in Jim's ear and he only just resists the urge to slam the receiver back into place. He tries to focus on the work in front of him (it's no surprise that all of Harvey's paperwork has piled up in Jim's absence), but his thoughts keep returning to the election. Without a position of more power, he has no hope of effecting any meaningful change in the GCPD. And without more involvement from Loeb to counter the recent scandal, his odds of being elected union president are questionable at best.

But more importantly, he feels like he's sold himself out for nothing at all. He can tolerate trudging through the muck if it's for the greater good, but not if the sole purpose is to emerge just as dirty as everyone else.

"I'm heading home," he says to Harvey, grabbing his mac off the back of his chair.

"What? You practically just got here."

"Yeah, well. I gotta go."

"Wait a second," Harvey says. "Was that Lee on the phone? Are you knocking off early for some welcome-back-to-work nookie? Because that, I can get behind."

"No," Jim says, but Harvey's words remind him that and Lee did have dinner plans. He's going to have to cancel; he's in no state to be good company. "It's personal. I'll see you in the morning."

He leaves the station without a clear idea where he's going. His apartment will be too claustrophobic, and he's running perilously short on friends. He could use a drink, some peace and quiet, perhaps some help, and he pretends he doesn't know where he's going when he turns toward the center of the city.

He hesitates when he finds himself outside Oswald's, a neon blue umbrella the only sign that he's reached his destination. He thinks about heading home then, avoiding any additional trouble. Before he can make his decision, the man he recognizes as Cobblepot's henchman opens the door. "Detective Gordon," he says. "The boss'll be happy to see you."

Jim doesn't have a choice, then, and he follows the larger man inside. When Cobblepot emerges from the office, he is indeed happy to see Jim, effusively so.

"Jim!" he says warmly. "What an unexpected pleasure."

Jim offers an awkward half smile, sorry that he's here now that it's too late to leave.

"You look troubled," Cobblepot says. "Come, let's talk. Shall I get us something to drink?"

"No," Jim says, feeling like he'll need all his wits about him if he's going to stay.

"All right," Cobblepot says easily. Then, to his henchman, "We'll be upstairs, Gabe. Hold my calls."

Cobblepot leads Jim through a side hallway behind the tables in the main seating area, and up two flights of stairs. His bad leg drags behind him, but his practiced grip on the bannister shows this is a walk he's accustomed to making.

Emerging into a hallway, he leads Jim through a set of double doors and into an apartment that was likely Fish's before Cobblepot took over. There are still traces of Fish in the baroque décor, but Cobblepot has obviously spent more time modifying this space than he has the club proper. The furnishings are all black leather and chrome, and the entire apartment feels cool and sleek.

Cobblepot sits in the middle of a square, low-backed couch and motions for Jim to join him. "So tell me, Jim. What brings you here this afternoon?"

Jim sits beside him, uncomfortably close but not wanting to slight him by sitting elsewhere. "I don't know," he says, and he's surprised at his own honesty.

"Hm." Cobblepot takes him in with an appraising eye. "I'm afraid I'm going to need a bit more than that," he says.

Jim sighs, pressed to provide some sort of explanation. "There's a…situation," he admits after a pause. "I was considering asking for your input, but now I think it's best if I handle it alone."

Cobblepot nods. "Well, I'm sure I needn't remind you that if you change your mind, I'm always happy to offer any assistance I can."

"Thank you." Jim moves to stand, thinking he might actually be able to get out of this ill-considered visit before there's any trouble, but Cobblepot stops him with a hand on his thigh.

"Oh, we're not quite done," he says, as Jim sits stiffly back on the couch. "You may not know why you're here, James, but I do. The Buddha said that control of one's own mind is necessary if there is to be peace. And you seem to be constantly questing for peace, though you choose to do it in the guise of a soldier.

"But control is something that's so misunderstood. Many mistake it for dominance or good judgment, but that's so short-sighted. Sometimes control is making a bad decision, but making it knowingly."

He shifts then, swinging his good leg over to straddle Jim's thighs. This had long been one of Barbara's favorite moves, and Jim's hands go automatically to Cobblepot's waist. Cobblepot leans in close, his lips brushing Jim's as he speaks. "And it seems that time and again, I'm your bad decision."

Cobblepot's kiss is more insistent, more proprietary this time. It's unexpected and it gives Jim pause. His fingers flutter on Cobblepot's waist, not quite pushing him away, and Cobblepot reads the hesitation in his body. He rises up on his knees and cups Jim's face in his hands, pushing him further into the leather at his back.

Jim can't explain what's happening. One minute Cobblepot's spouting some nonsense about Buddha, and the next he and Jim are kissing. Again. Jim doesn't think he's even attracted to Cobblepot; he's certainly never been attracted to a man before. But Cobblepot's rocking against him softly, and they both know Jim is growing hard.

Time moves in a blur then, Jim's memory a collection of snapshots: Cobblepot's nimble fingers making quick work of Jim's belt. Cobblepot's hand warm around Jim's cock, gripping him firmly the way Jim likes best. Jim's fingers slipping loose the buttons of Cobblepot's waistcoat, then his shirt, baring pale skin. The surprising softness of Cobblepot's hair against his cheek as he drops kisses across Jim's shoulder and chest.

When Cobblepot presses their cocks together for the first time and takes them both in hand, Jim stops remembering anything at all.

\-----

Afterward, Jim can't look Cobblepot in the eye as they put themselves back together. Cobblepot keeps his distance until Jim is fully dressed, then turns to him with a wide smile. "This was a rather…pleasant visit," he says. "I do hope you know you're welcome back any time."

Jim clenches his jaw. He doesn't understand how something like this happened once, but he's damn sure it won't happen again.

Cobblepot must see the look on his face, because his smile thins out. "Rest easy, Jim. I won't pursue you. As I said before, our little interludes will only happen at your instigation."

Jim bites back any argument he has about the likelihood of that scenario and leaves instead in silence.

\-----

The next time it happens, Jim's had a fight with Lee that sounds far too much like those he had with Barbara. He doesn't mean to seek Cobblepot out, but the he finds himself outside the door to the club all the same.

The time after that, he doesn't have any excuse at all.

\-----

The day before the election, Jim tries in vain not to let his doubts get the best of him. Loeb's kept his word and has duly endorsed Jim to each media outlet that's asked for his comment. There have been far more than Jim expected; his history as a golden boy fallen from grace has made him an attractive underdog to the papers.

Essen has been vocal in her support and Harvey's bullied votes out of all his guys at the station. Still, Jim worries that he'll lose to Berardi, Flass's crony from Narco. He brings with him all of Flass's votes, though Jim suspects he's being backed by Maroni. He's the obvious choice, and Jim can't be sure that even Loeb's endorsement will be enough to turn the tide of the election in his favor. But there's nothing more than can be done now. Campaigning, for better or worse, is through.

Harvey's been surprisingly solid through the whole thing, showing more patience with Jim than Jim thought him capable of. Lee's been good, too, offering her care and support despite Jim's reluctance to take their relationship further. He knows she's disappointed, but she's been able to set that aside to help Jim get through the election. He appreciates her kindness more than he can say, and it makes him feel even guiltier each time he leaves Cobblepot's.

Uncomfortable, he pushes the thought aside. He and Lee have plans tonight; he's taking her out for a nice dinner to thank her for all she's done. He has a bit of time before her shift ends, just enough to run home to change, maybe find the navy and silver tie that's her favorite.

Or perhaps she'd be better served by Jim getting a drink to calm his nerves. He's been inflicting his restlessness on Harvey all day; he doesn't need to do the same to Lee when tonight's dinner should be all about her.

Jim knows Oswald's isn't open to the public this early in the evening. There, he can be assured of having a drink in peace and away from the prying eyes of the media.

\-----

Now, he and Cobblepot have been sitting in mostly companionable silence in the early morning sunlight while Jim sips his coffee and fully wakes. It's a luxury, having both the time to wake slowly and someone who will let him. He's spent too many mornings either startled into crisis mode, feeling the adrenaline slowly leaching from his body for hours afterward, or woken with questions and negotiations he's not nearly cognizant enough for while the sun is still rising.

Cobblepot's skin is starting to warm from being pressed against Jim's. Cobblepot leans into him, stroking the smooth pads of his fingers down Jim's spine. "You've never stayed the night before," he says, voice soft and morning-rough. "Am I to take it, Jim Gordon, there's a first time for everything?"

Jim didn't mean to stay. He had dinner plans with Lee and the intermittent buzzing of his phone provided all the reminder he needed. But Cobblepot plied him with drinks and Jim found himself giving halting voice to the some of his concerns about the election: what's become of Gotham; his increasingly futile place in the city he loves; the loss of identity he's too scared to speak of directly, but has become adept in speaking around. He always takes care to speak broadly, and never about the things that worry him most. His empty promise to Bruce and his failings with Barbara and Lee will be his alone to keep.

Cobblepot did what he's always done, what Barbara and Lee have struggled to do: he listened, without offering trite platitudes or false hope. His silent support, despite his clear position on the opposite side of the divide, has become welcomed by Jim.

They made their way to the bedroom, inevitably, and the ease with which they touched one another made Jim realize that Cobblepot's become a familiar lover. He knows Cobblepot's body better than he does Lee's, and he stilled as the guilt washed over him. Cobblepot stopped, his hand square on Jim's chest and said, "Here, Jim. With me." He kissed Jim then, lush and slow but with more than a hint of teeth, the way Jim's become accustomed to.

They've learned each other well: how to best work around Cobblepot's bad leg, how the tease of a loose grip on Cobblepot's cock makes him gasp with naked desperation, how the damp heat between their bodies gives Jim the sense of intimacy he needs in order to lose himself to Cobblepot's touch.

Cobblepot's hand was possessive on Jim's waist, guiding his hips in a steady rhythm while his hand stroked warm and slick over Jim's cock. Jim's breath was starting to come fast, his own hand low on Cobblepot's neck, thumb stroking over the rise of his Adam's apple. It was as close as he'd come to Cobblepot's desire for a harsher, choking grip, and Cobblepot relished in the unpredictable clench of Jim's hand that came as he rubbed firm circles beneath the crown of Jim's cock.

Jim's nervousness made him particularly eager, and he neared orgasm sooner than expected. Cobblepot held him there, playing his fingers in swirling arcs around Jim's length until Jim met his eyes in a plea for more. Jim didn't know what Cobblepot saw there, but he surged forward for a biting kiss, working Jim's cock tightly, and Jim came with a muffled cry against Cobblepot's lips.

He broke away for breath, but guilt flooded in as his orgasm receded and he felt raw and exposed. He sought Cobblepot's kiss again, less for desire and more as a way to hide.

Cobblepot was still hard and Jim shifted closer, grounding himself in the expanse of Cobblepot's skin to keep the guilt at bay. Cobblepot sometimes had difficulty reaching orgasm; though this was something they both knew, it wasn't something they ever talked about. Jim felt the telling cadence in Cobblepot's breath and he stroked a soothing hand over his shoulder and chest.

"I've got you," Jim said, soft, reassuring. He threw his leg over Cobblepot's hip, pulling him closer and stilling his movement. When he settled, Jim reached for his cock and stroked him with a slow, firm grip. Cobblepot's spine relaxed, coiled tension easing out of his body. "There," Jim said, against Cobblepot's cheek. "Let me."

It was short work, then, to bring him off. Jim was already starting to give in to the lassitude stealing over his body when Cobblepot came, and he fell asleep to the sound of Cobblepot's evening breath.

Jim looks at Cobblepot now through the steam rising from his coffee as he considers how to answer his question. Jim's never given much thought to this thing between them, likely out of sheer self-preservation. If he had, he'd have assumed it was mutually understood that this was never meant to function as anything more than a quick and necessary release, a way for Jim to impose some kind of control over the chaos he regularly faces. It's not something that should involve any kind of feelings or commitment, even one brief enough to last only through the morning.

But this is Cobblepot's modus operandi, constantly pushing for more and inserting himself where he doesn't belong. Jim should've seen it coming.

He sets his coffee aside and gets out of bed with a sigh, turning to follow the careless trail of his clothes through the apartment. "It won't happen again," he says gruffly.

Cobblepot frowns, something darker than disappointment in his tone. "No?" he says. "Pity. I could have gotten used to this."

"Yeah, well. Don't."

Jim dresses quickly, trying to remember if there's a florist between his new apartment and the station, wondering if flowers will even make a difference for Lee at this point. He's about to leave when Cobblepot calls from the bedroom, "Good luck with today's election, Detective Gordon."

There's something hiding between his words that Jim can't read and though he knows he's doing the right thing, he feels like he's making a mistake he'll come to regret.


End file.
